


Pale Green Things

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 22:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8031184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: Laurel takes a rare opportunity to leave work early.ORLaurel used to be horrified by the idea that children become their parents become their children.  She's no longer quite so sure.





	Pale Green Things

**Author's Note:**

> So everything I write seems to wind up being kind of innately sad and I wanted to try and challenge myself to not do that. And then there was a bit of a discussion about fluffy flaurel (esp Frank) as parents which got me thinking about how I'd frame all that. And this is what I managed to spit out in like all in one go. It's mostly not sad, or as not-sad as I can get...  
> Not that it matters for purposes of understanding things, but an ideal machine is a hypothetical machine where energy isn't lost/dissipated by friction/wear/inefficiencies. It's sort of like a perpetual motion machine, but not really...it's also not quite accurately depicted here...
> 
> Also, I guess that this can be read as maybe a companion to, or as existing in the same universe as Up the Wolves, so if you've read that, maybe use it as kind of a lens by which to view the fic. Or not.

Her day ends early; closing arguments in the agg assault trial she’s first chairing taking less time than even Judge Koizumi anticipated and he lets them all out early for the weekend, deciding to start jury instructions on Monday, rather than try and stay late to fit them in.

She knows the jury appreciates it, she can see on their relieved faces how much they want to leave, start the weekend, can't even think about coming back on Monday yet; they just want to get out, go home. Laurel can understand the feeling.

It's only three o'clock and though she thinks, briefly, about going back to the office, trying to knock out some emails, some of the work that’s been piling up during the trial, she vetoes the idea, decides to head home. She’s put in more than enough hours for the week, for the month really, and figures she can catch up on emails during a stolen hour sometime before Monday, the rest of her work while she’s waiting for the jury to come back from deliberations.

Laurel’s had enough trials, seen enough juries, to know when deliberations will take a while, and she knows she’s good for at least a few hours with this one; maybe a whole day if she’s read the quiet older woman with the no-nonsense twist to her lips correctly.

But she can worry about that later, right now she just wants to go home.

She checks in briefly with her client, makes sure he knows what it means that they're going straight to instructions on Monday, makes sure he knows he still needs to show up, still needs to be in a suit with his girlfriend and their kid and his mom and little brothers in the gallery.

“You need to be on,” she tells him, as she’s told him for the past three days, as she’s told him for the past three months he’s been her client. “Every single moment the jury can see you, you need to be on. They need to believe that you would never do what you're accused of.”

He grins, confident now that the trial’s nearly over, that he sees a glimmer of hope. “Make them believe it,” he nods, echoing the words she’s said to him half a hundred times since his file landed on her desk.

“We’ve gotten you this far,” she tells him sternly, trying to swallow down the urge to grin back because yeah, she can taste victory too, can feel in her bones that there’s a chance for him, a chance for her to have him walk out of the courthouse a free man. “Don't blow it now, ok?”

“Wouldn't dream of tanking things now,” he assures her with a little eye roll Laurel’s only half annoyed by.

She catches her client’s mother’s gaze, eyes flicking to the young man and back and his mother gives her a nod, understanding. She’ll keep him in line this weekend and then Laurel’ll pick things back up on Monday and together, if they both do their jobs and they're both lucky, they’ll keep him out of prison.

She waits till the courtroom clears out a bit, packs her things slowly so it does and then heads out herself, the weight of the week already beginning to lift off her shoulders before she even makes it to the bus.

By the time she gets home she’s grinning despite herself, practically jogging up the front steps to unlock the door. The house is quiet and still and Laurel toes off her heels beside the door, pads softly, carefully, up the creaky old stairs towards the bedroom, throwing her bag beside the staircase, her keys and phone on the little table in the hall.

She’s tugging at the zipper of her dress as she goes, sloughing it off her shoulders as she pushes the bedroom door open. And freezes, an unexpected blur of movement catching her attention from the corner of her eye.

“Hey,” Frank mumbles, lifting his head slightly and blinking, owlish, as she stops in the doorway, heart clenching softly, wonderfully.

“Hey,” she murmurs back, soft, everything suddenly feeling soft.

“Trial finished up?” he asks, voice low, still barely moving, only his eyes lifting to watch her as she moves into the room.

“Yeah,” she nods, forgetting about shucking her dress, forgetting about the emails she needs to reply to, and how she’s completely missed lunch, just leans against the door jam and looks, just looks, heart full, heart threatening to consume the rest of her.

Because Frank’s curled on his side, covers kicked down by his ankles, left arm curled around their son, his tiny body pressed tight against Frank’s chest, face buried close to the soft material of his shirt, Frank’s other arm pillowing their son’s head, his dark hair, a perfect match for Frank’s, nearly long enough now to slip into his eyes.

“I’m glad you're here,” he tells her, reaching out and brushing their son’s hair away from his face, smiling gently at the soft snuffling sound Mateo makes, and even from her watch by the door, Laurel can see the way his brows pull in, can see the little frown that works its way onto his face, their little son serious even in sleep. She can see the love shining in Frank’s eyes too, eyes her son inherited, as he regards the tiny boy who’s knees and arms press against his chest.

“Yeah?” she asks, can't help the smile that creeps onto her face, the pricking of something like tears at the back of her eyes. She loves, oh how she loves. This, Frank, her son, her life. She just loves.

Frank nods, looks back up at her, crooked smirk flashing across his face. Oh, she loves that too. “Yeah, arm fell asleep ‘bout fifteen minutes ago. C’mere so you can be his pillow.”

Laurel laughs quickly, sharply, before she can help herself, tries to swallow the sound before Teo wakes up. He snuffles again, burrows further against Frank’s chest, tiny hands fisting against the fabric of his t-shirt.

Frank shoots her an accusatory look, laced through with affection and after a moment his grin is back, can't be hidden.

“Is that all I’m good for?” she asks, but approaches anyway, pushes the material of her dress from her shoulders, lets it pool on the floor before stepping out, watching lazily at Frank’s sudden alertness, eyes widening and his breath hitching.

She stills, lets Frank stare, drinking his fill of her. Once she may have turned away, averted her eyes or tried to slip something over herself to replace the dress, once, but not anymore.

She used to dislike her body, or parts of it, the specifics often changing; before Teo, during Teo, after Teo. She doesn't think she ever really felt entirely comfortable in her own skin, always wanted to remain hidden, unseen, always wanted to make herself invisible. She could recognize, objectively, that she was beautiful, that men and women wanted her, found something in her eyes or her smile or the lines of her body that they liked, admired. But she didn't understand it, didn't see it for herself, had always been able to find something that she hated, that she felt was wrong. And after Teo was born she would stare at herself in the mirror, at the body she no longer even recognized, confused and frustrated at the parts of herself that weren't her own anymore.

But she couldn't, _can't_ regret anything that lead Teo to her, exactly as he is, couldn't hate her body for long because it gave her Teo and she loves it, loves herself and her body and loves Frank.

Her stomach, which she's unsure will ever really be flat again, no matter how many crunches she does, no matter how many months pass; her breasts, bigger and fuller now and no matter how much she knows Frank likes them now, likes them as much as he liked them before Teo, they still don't entirely feel like her own, don't feel entirely like they belong on the rest of her, sharp and angular still; and God, she thinks, even her feet might be different, slightly wider maybe, though she has no idea if that's even physically possible.

And yet, she doesn't mind, can't mind, loves her stranger's body for bringing her son to her, for having created him from what seems sometimes like thin air and hope and a touch of desperation, of madness. She loves her body, grew to love her body only when it stopped really being her own, stopped belonging exclusively to her, and she loves too, the way Frank continues to love it, fifty pounds heavier and her stomach and ankles and God, _everything_ swollen with their son, and now, five months later when she's almost, and yet nothing, like the version of his wife that existed before their son.

“'S not fair,” Frank complains then, his voice husky, the blue of his eyes nearly swallowed by black. She thinks it's a credit to him that he doesn't move, doesn't do anything to disturb Teo, though she can tell from the bob of his throat, the way his eyes track her movements that he wants to. He's such a good father, she thinks, and she is so, so lucky to have him, _Teo_ is so lucky to have him.

She's not quite sure how she got so lucky, still sometimes finds herself doubting the good things in her life, mistrusting them, but she knows in her bones that her son has only what he deserves and she is so, so grateful for it; that she and Frank, together, have carved out a life for him, for their still new son, one that's as close to perfect as Laurel thinks she’ll ever be able to imagine, one she couldn't even begin to imagine as a silent, ignored child in a too-big, too-cold house, filled with violence and lies and fear.

“No,” she agrees with a shrug, grinning as she tugs one of Frank’s spare shirts on, pulling it across her shoulders, breathing into the soft scent of him as it wraps around her. “It wasn't. But I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Better,” he grins, scooting back slightly so that Laurel can slip into bed beside him, bodies bracketing their son.

She reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against Frank’s hip, the thin strip of skin between his shorts and where his shirt has ridden up across his stomach and leans into him so that their lips can meet, soft and sweet above Teo’s head.

Laurel stretches her arm out along the mattress, parallel to Frank’s and with slow, practiced movements Frank slips his arm out from under their son’s head, Laurel’s slipping in to replace it. Her other moves so it can drape over Teo’s loose-limbed body, rest against Frank’s hip, his back. She curves her body, her knees so that her shins can brush against Frank’s, so she can feel the cool bare skin of his legs as she tangles their ankles together.

“How long’s he been out?” she mouths.

Frank’s shoulders hitch, and she feels the play of muscles under her fingertips, feels the answering clench of muscles low in her gut, wanting him, always. “Hour maybe.”

She nods, more to herself than anything, loving these small, quiet moments more than she thinks she can love anything. She feels sometimes like she’s been fighting her whole life and maybe she has been. Fighting to get to this, to this soft, quiet life, to this life where her son, her baby, will never have to fight like she did. “He’ll be out for a while yet then.”

Frank grins across at her, crooked and smirking and so, so proud. “Little man’s had a big day.”

“Avocado, huh?” Laurel asks, grinning as she places a soft kiss against the back of her son’s head, breathing in the clean, fresh, baby smell of his body, careful not to wake him. “That go over better than peas?”

“Yeah,” Frank says as his grin goes soft, as it always does when it comes to Teo. She's not sure either of them will ever really get used to him, to the small, still-fragile creature that has Frank’s eyes and her mouth and a nose she’s pretty sure won't look anything like either of theirs and a personality that's all his own, already, that's serious and watchful and gentle and bright with laughter, affection. He’s perfect and he’s their's and Laurel sometimes wakes in the middle of the night, has to pad into Teo’s room, watch the rise and fall of his little body, the twitches to his limbs, to his mouth as he dreams, reassure herself that he’s real. Sometimes she catches Frank doing the same thing, just staring at their son as if he’ll vanish, disappear if he looks away.

She knows too that Frank still wonders how his life turned out the way it has; the Fishtown boy made more than good now, hopes that someday both of them can let down their guard enough to accept the wonder that's become their lives.

“As well as sweet potato?” Laurel asks, heart swelling till she can feel it in her throat, feel it low in her gut. She loves, just loves, fully, totally, completely.

“I took a video,” he whispers back. “We can compare.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, squeezing his arm, somewhere near his elbow, thumb stroking against his skin. She knows he didn't take the video just to compare what foods Teo likes best. He did because he knows how it gnaws at her that she misses things, misses small moments that she’ll never get back with her child, that it fills her with guilt, makes her wonder in her darkest hours if she can ever be better than her own parents.

And they’d agreed, months before Teo was born, that she’d go back to work and Frank’d stay home with the baby, and she knows it was the logical decision because Annalise will let him work part time, let him work with Teo strapped to his chest in a Snuggie and Laurel is still new enough in the PDs office that taking a few months, a few years off would have been as good as quitting, starting fresh. But still, sometimes it hurts. No, it _always_ hurts and sometimes it hurts more.

But Frank makes it hurt less; with his videos, and his photos and the voicemails he leaves while she’s at court that are just a series of Teo-noises; gurgles and screams and bubbling baby laughs. Frank makes everything hurt less, all the lingering pains like bruises, like scars that she carries over her heart, scabbed over but not quite healed, the lingering effects of eighteen years in her father’s house, a lifetime of hurt and anger and fear. Frank makes those things hurt less, him and Teo.

“Course,” he tells her, smiling that tentative smile he gets when he knows she’s hurting, isn't entirely sure what to do to make it stop beyond offering himself to her. “Got most of it all over himself though. Never knew not having teeth was such an issue.”

Laurel chuckles under her breath, presses another kiss to Teo’s head as she does. “Was he still thrown off by taste?”

Frank's brow furrows, eyebrows pulling in and she laughs again, softly, because the two of them, Frank and Teo, have identical expressions of confusion and she loves it, loves that she can see Frank so clearly in her son. She wonders sometimes if he’s inherited or picked up any expressions of her’s, thinks he must've because he's more like her than Frank in many ways; quiet and observant and slow to emotions and yet, she sometimes thinks all Teo’s expressions are Frank’s own, mirrored on his tiny face. “Thrown off by the taste?”

“Yeah,” she says, grin slipping wider, moving her free hand to thread her fingers through Frank’s. “You remember when we tried out sweet potato. How shocked and confused he looked that there was something out there that tasted different from milk.”

Frank’s eyes spark with recognition over the top of Teo’s head. “Yeah,” he breathes softly, and she can hear the laugh moving like a current through his voice, his eyes going distant. “Yeah, he was still a bit uncertain about the concept of flavor with avocado.”

“Poor Mr. T,” she hums softly. “He has no idea what he’s missing out on.”

Frank’s grin goes crooked, smirking. “Nah,” he tells her, voice rough. “He just likes what you've got going on. Can’t say I blame him.”

She rolls her eyes, huffs a little because it's been five months and Frank still hasn't stopped making breast jokes and she's not sure he ever will, not sure she’d love him quite so much if he ever did, much as they annoy her sometimes. “Frank,” she chastises, but there's no heat behind her words.

“What?” he asks, his smile teasing. “Breast is best right?”

She rolls her eyes again, has to duck her head so that he can't see the smile that worms its way onto her face.

“Teo just loves you,” he assures her, smile going soft, worshipful. “He just wants you to be focused on him, all the time the way you are when you feed him.”

“You jealous?” she teases, because she can't let herself think about how much it hurts that she can't spend the time with her son that she wants, can't devote all her hours to him.

There's a little hitch that runs through Frank’s jaw, over his shoulders. “Yeah, a little,” he answers honestly, brows drawing in. “And not at all.”

He must see the confusion on her face because he continues, voice suddenly thick. “I’d love if you looked at me like you look at him. When you're with him I'm not sure there's anything else in the world for you.”

He watches her as Laurel reaches out again, drops Frank's hand and strokes along Teo's hairline, along his tiny perfect ears, his downy soft cheeks. But then she moves again, turns back to Frank, her fingers moving across his jawline, through his beard.

“And yeah,” Frank breathes against her fingers. “I want that, I want to be looked at like you look at him. But he’s my son, and you love my kid so completely, and I can't be jealous at all. I know how much you love me because of how much you love him.”

Its true, Laurel thinks, it must be true, because almost since they found out about Teo, once they got over their initial terror, doubts about what having him would mean, Laurel has been finding herself, nearly every day, falling more and more in love with Frank, finding more and more ways to love him because of how he loves Teo, how he devotes himself to him, like their son opened doors to her heart she didn't even know were there, opened up a whole new dimension of ways she could love Frank.

“I love you too though,” Laurel tells him, not because she thinks she needs to reassure him, but because she wants to, because if she spends the rest of her life saying it, she’s still not sure it will be enough.

“I know,” he answers simply, meeting her eyes. “It’s different from how you love him, but I do know.”

Teo squirms between them then, kicking out with his baby feet at Frank’s chest till he huffs with surprise, maybe a touch of pain. She watches Frank’s eyes swing down to their son’s face, alert, always, to their son, to his needs.

“He just dreaming?” she mouths, just as the little boy squirms again, lets out a high wail.

Frank gives her a smile that borders on sheepish, as though he thinks it's his fault Teo’s awake, and shakes his head slightly.

Laurel places her hand along the span of the baby’s back, feels his tiny ribs, his quick breaths against her palm, and rolls him to her, tugs him tight against her chest.

“Hey, Mateo,” she croons, hands splaying over his back. “Hey sweet boy, it's ok.”

His cries stutter, startled, she thinks, at hearing her voice. She meets Frank’s eyes over Teo’s head and he gives her a little eye-rolling grin, heavy with affection.

“Hey, little man,” she continues as his fussing continues, cries high and reedy. “Everything’s ok my best man, everything’s fine. I’m here and your dad’s here and you're here and everything's ok.”

His cries quiet the more she speaks, his wide blue eyes lighting on her face and just staring, mouth open slightly as he goes still, quiet, eyes tracking over hers as though he doesn't quite believe she’s there, can't get enough of the sight of her.

“Hi there Teo,” she says again, stroking her fingers across his cheek. “I’m so happy to see you.”

He grins his little baby grin, wide and wet and open and Laurel lets herself smile back at him, fingers trailing over his cheek, his chin, watching his eyes widen as he continues to stare at her.

It will never stop shocking her, she thinks, never stop being amazing and perfect and terrifying the way her son loves her, unconditionally, unreservedly, the way just a few words from her, just her presence can settle him, assure him that everything's alright. It's a huge, terrifying burden and it awes her and humbles her and she has no idea what she did to deserve it, deserve that trust, that love. She has no idea what she did to deserve Teo, deserve Frank, deserve the life she's been given, that she’s forged for herself, fought for. She has no idea how she got to lucky, but she’s grateful, without reservation, that she was.

“He need changing?” Frank asks her quickly, softly, eyebrows raised as he pushes himself onto his elbows, always ready to take on what he can of the parenting, of the business of loving their son.

She sniffs cautiously at Teo, tugs gently at the seam of his diaper when smell gives nothing away. “Nah,” she tells him when he inspection comes up with nothing. “When’d he last eat?”

“He’s fine,” Frank assures her, gesturing at an empty bottle on the nightstand. “Fed him right before he fell asleep. Don't let him con you into screwing up the schedule just cause you're home early.”

Laurel grins softly at him, at Teo who probably _would_ try to con her into nursing even though he’s not hungry. He is, like Frank, incredibly tactile, another thing her son’s inherited from Frank that she probably wouldn't have been able to love quite so much five years ago. He's always wanting to be held, to be touched, to touch things himself, to grasp his tiny fingers around her hand, put his cheek against hers or against her chest, listen to the beating of her heart. It's a strange, jarring closeness she’s never felt with anyone else, not even Frank, the thing she shares with her son. When his body is held tight against her, nestled in the crook of her arms Laurel feels sometimes like he is still a part of her, still an extension of her body that is separate and distinct and yet not, that is still a part of her. She thinks Teo knows it to, craves the reassurance of having her body tight around his, sheltering him, comforting him, hearing her heartbeat thrum against his ears and reminding him that everything is safe, that he is loved without qualification.

He presses into her now, curling his body tight against hers, his head buried against the column of her throat, his face pressed tight against her chest, snuffling softly against her skin, his warm baby breaths sounding against her heart.

“I heard,” she murmurs, reaching out to tickle at his sides, loving his squirms, his high baby laugh, the way his eyes crinkle at their corners just like Frank’s. “Your dad tried to poison you earlier today.”

She hears Frank’s scoff, feels his own fingers walking up her sides until she huffs out a laugh, recognizes something of Teo in the sound, loves the little thread of connection between the two of them. “I did not,” Frank tells her, feigning insult, sticking out his tongue at her.

“That's not what little man tells me,” she says with a laugh, Teo copying the sound, throwing his head back against Frank’s chest, his little legs kicking out in excitement. “Teo says you tried to poison him with avocado.”

“Teo,” Frank says, emphasizing the little boy’s name until he turns his head, stares back at his father, as though only just becoming aware of Frank’s presence at his back, a grin lighting up his entire face, waving his pudgy arms in excitement until his whole body shakes with it, his eyes wide, staring, fascinated, at his father. “Is clearly misrepresenting our avocado adventure.”

Laurel hums, gives their son a look of exaggerated skepticism as he swings his eyes between her and Frank, big and always searching and filled with love. “Maybe so,” she admits, tickling along the side of his onesie.

“We should go for round two tonight,” Frank suggests, eyes going soft, mouth sweet and slanting, because he knows she isn't going to feel the video he took is enough, is going to want to see Teo try avocado for herself, see in all their perfect blinding detail the scrunch of his brow and the flick of his tiny pink tongue and the flail of his hands against his highchair. “What do you say to that Mateo?”

Their son turns to watch Frank again, eyes fixed on his father’s mouth as Frank pulls a series of faces down at him before Teo bursts into a string of unintelligible sounds, mostly vowels, Laurel thinks, but some consonants that sounds like the start of the letter d, and she hopes, desperately and with a clench in her chest that is almost painful, that he’ll start to speak soon, start to call Frank ‘Daddy’, much as the thought of someone calling him that a few years ago would have had Laurel snorting with laughter and teasing him endlessly.

She wants that almost more than she thinks she wants to hear Teo call her Mama, wants it for Frank, and wants it for herself too, selfishly, because she loves them both, infinitely, unendingly, loves being witness to their relationship, to the fierce love the two of them have for each other, already, the bond they share, unbreakable and mystifying and familiar.

And she wants him to be certain of how Teo loves him, his connection with his son in a way she always fears he lacks. Because while yes, Frank spends more time with their baby, she thinks he feels sometimes like he’s always operating from a disadvantage, that he’ll never have what she and Teo have. Because she had those months he was inside her to learn him, to know him as surely as she knows her own heartbeat, the countless hours she spent while he was small and new with his body tucked tight against her breast, his hands fisting against her skin.

And she thinks sometimes that Frank feels like he’s missing something, missed out on something, and she doesn't want that, doesn't ever want that, for Frank to feel like that even in his darkest moments, because he isn't perfect as a father, but he’s perfect for Teo, perfect to Teo and she never wants him to doubt that.

“I love you,” she blurts then, feeling her eyes wet and pricking with tears, feeling her heart full to bursting.

Frank laughs at first, taken aback, but his face melts when he sees her tears and he reaches out, threads his fingers through hers overtop Teo’s tiny body; their little family perfect and whole. “I love you too, babe,” he tells her, voice barely more than a whisper. “You an him. Always.”

“I know,” she assures him, thumb passing over his knuckles, because sometimes she wonders, sometimes she’s not sure he knows, truly, how little she doubts him, his love for her, for Teo, how sure she is of Frank, of how much he loves her, of how committed he is to both of them. “He knows too.”

Their son laughs between them again as Frank presses his lips against hers, tongue sliding out to taste her and Teo’s hand darts up, smacking against Laurel’s cheek, scraping against Frank’s whiskers so that they have to break away, breathless and laughing.

“Hey,” Frank tells him, face screwing up into an exaggerated frown. “You jealous there T? You think you're the only one your ma’s allowed to kiss?”

Teo just laughs and kicks his feet out again, twists his body so he can better watch his father.

“Don't be jealous,” Frank tells him gently, pressing a string of kisses along Teo’s cheeks, his chin, his chubby little neck as he grasps at Frank’s beard with tiny fingers, his eyes fixed on Teo’s, twin blues locked on each other, shining with affection, with adoration. “I’m gonna let you in on a secret, ok, little man? Love doesn't have limits, and definitely not where your ma’s concerned. She loves us both more than anything.”

And then his eyes lift to Laurel and he grins, serious and slanting when he speaks again, and she’s not sure whether Frank is speaking to her or their son, not sure whether it matters. “Your mom’s heart’s the ideal machine, kid. The more she loves, the stronger it gets, the stronger she loves us.”

“And I’ll let you in on another secret, Teo. Your heart, it's got the same power.”

Laurel tries not to cry, she really does, but nursing still has her hormones hopelessly jumbled, like the wires have been crossed and all lead to the button marked ‘tears.’ In some ways she hates it, because she never used to be much of a crier, and had made it a point to keep her emotions off her face, buried deep inside her chest since she was old enough to know how dangerous they could be, since she was old enough to realize how they could and would be used to hurt her. And yet, with Teo, with Frank, she’s not sure she can see the point of it anymore, see the point of guarding her heart, disguising the deep, wonderful love she has for the two of them.

And that honestly makes her cry harder, slow tears slipping down her cheeks, one falling against Teo’s tiny forehead till he looks up, beaming at her like she’s done something marvelous. It practically makes her sob because Laurel’s not sure she ever would've imagined herself able to remove the defenses she kept around herself, not sure she ever would've felt safe enough to unwrap the armor she kept close against her heart, to love something so fully, so nakedly back when she was a child imagining her future from her father’s blood soaked house. It doesn't make her sad, not really, imagining herself back then, because that Laurel eventually became who she is now, in this instant, and she knows, certain, it has all been worth it. She would do it a hundred, thousand times over so long as it brought Teo to her, gave her her son, gave her Frank.

But it makes her cry because it seems like such an impossible thing, and yet she has it; Teo and Frank and a heart that’s melted, thawed so thoroughly she can hardly remember it was once frozen.

She shakes her head though, tears still hot against her skin and Frank props his chin up on his elbow, reaches out and brushes the moisture from her cheeks, thumb catching over the hard angle of her cheekbone. But his smile is soft and he knows she’s not sad, not really.

Laurel shakes her head, because she has a point to make, to Frank, to Teo and it's important, she’s certain of its importance. She isn't certain of much, but she's certain of that.

“Your dad’s smart,” she tells Teo, wiping at the tear that still lies wet against his forehead, fingers carding through the short, fine strands of his dark hair, impossibly soft against her skin. He grins, toothlessly, his eyes half falling closed at her touch, reassured by her touch, by the comfort, the tenderness in her familiar touch, body going loose and relaxed and sagging against her like he wants to become a part of her again. “But he’s wrong about this. You and me and him; that's the ideal machine. The three of us. The more we love the more love we create.”

She hears Frank’s huffing laugh, looks up to catch his blinding slanting smile, before he’s pressing forward, pressing a deep, slow kiss to her lips and then a quick one to Teo’s chubby baby cheek, and then her son is laughing too, because he thinks kisses are wonderful, especially when Frank’s whiskers tickle his face and he’s reaching out to the both of them with his tiny, perfect fingers, seeking out the people he loves, the people that love him and Laurel thinks to herself that yeah, she’s more right than she knows. They’re, the three of them, Frank and her and Mateo, they're the ideal, the impossible, the perfect machine.

**Author's Note:**

> Song title taken from the mountain goats song of the same name (again). The themes of the song are not remotely what this fic is about. But I can't think of anything else it should be titled.


End file.
